Page 9 of River & Rue

If I weren’t so pissed, I might laugh at River’s expression of shock. But I’m past the point of no return.

I jab a finger toward his face. “Listen carefully, your highness. I’m here because a major publisher is interested in a four-book series from me, but they want to see a draft of book two before moving forward. I’m not some nepo baby who can frolic at my leisure, swinging my dick and a paintbrush. I need a fucking break so I can finish this book. I’ve earned this. So if you have a problem with me being here, you can leave. I’m not going anywhere.”

The ringing in my ears fades, ambient sounds replacing it. My sawing breaths. Rustling leaves. Buzzing insects. My vision blurs. When I blink, something drips down my face, followed by multiple somethings. I’m mortified to realize I’m leaking tears.

Turning my back to River, I wipe my face roughly. But the tears keep coming. “Shit, shit.”

“Ruin.” His voice is disturbingly soft, the normally frigid rapids warm.

“Don’t think you’ve hurt my feelings. I’m an angry crier. And for the thousandth time, stop calling me that.”

When my eyeball malfunction is under control, I tilt my head back and stare into the trees, searching for an external source of strength. A floating leaf, a twerking squirrel, anything.

Because I’m tapped out.

I could blame losing my shit on a lot of things—a perfect storm of exhaustion and overwhelm, the trip triggering memories and grief, River being River—but the truth is he landed a solid hit to a deep, festering wound.

Since the day I received word I’d been accepted for this summer’s program, I’ve been grappling with the fear that I don’t belong here. That my acceptance was a fluke. That I’m a fraud. Over the last few weeks, I considered pulling out a hundred times.

In some ways, it would be a relief to let go. To stop trying, fighting, striving. To give up the dream I’ve had since my seventh-grade class took a field trip to the public library.

But I can’t. Won’t. I’m so close—closer than I ever thought I’d be. And if I give up, I’m certain some essential part of me will die.

Even if I fail in the end, I have to try.

For Teddy.

5

rue

​. . .​

rain in the forecast

Dry dirt crunches behind me as the bane of my existence shifts his weight.

“Hey. Will you look at me?”

“Pass.”

His sigh makes the back of my neck tingle. “I’m sorry, Rue. It was fucked up of me to say that. I didn’t mean it. You deserve to be here more than anyone I know and definitely more than me.” There’s a weighted pause. “Is this the same book series you were working on a couple years ago?”

My breath, my body, my heart—they all stall, then restart with a roar. There are only a handful of people in my life who’ve read excerpts from my first book, and he happens to be one of them. I’ve done my best to forget that fact. That whole night, really.

Against my better judgment, I answer him.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I have no idea how to interpret his tone; if it were anyone else, I’d say he sounds proud. But he’s not anyone else.

The shadows around us deepen as clouds block the sun. A gust of wind whistles its approach, stirring dirt and leaves. It swirls around me, refreshingly cool as it teases my hair and shirt. My pulse settles as I take deep breaths, and when I’m calm enough, I turn back around.

River stands a few feet away, his hands on his hips. His eyes are closed, his face upturned. Several strands of dark hair have escaped his bun and dance with the moving shadows on his face.

He absolutely does not look like some powerful, ethereal Fae warrior.